


Terrible Waiter

by Neffectual



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Ani DiFranco, M/M, first thing I've written for ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One glass of wine makes all the difference to how good a story is going to be.  Slices of life between a terrible waiter and an awful lawyer.</p>
<p>'Life is a B movie<br/>It's stupid and it's strange<br/>A directionless story <br/>And the dialogue is lame<br/>But in the he said she said<br/>Sometimes there's some poetry<br/>If you turn your back long enough<br/>And let it happen naturally'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terrible Waiter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thirteendaze (Thirteenthesiac)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thirteenthesiac/gifts).



The first time Roxas sees him, he's got his long fingers wrapped around a wine glass, sliding it onto the white linen tablecloth just so, until a nail, dirty and too long, catches on the stem and the ruby wine seems to hold, suspended in the air for a few aching, frozen seconds until it spills, soaking into the cloth like a bloodstain, and pouring onto the dove-grey slacks he had selected just for this meeting, and had tailored immaculately. His prospective business partner nods understandingly when he jumps up and snarls that they'll reschedule, some other time, but Roxas thinks he sees a hint of a smirk, and has to bite back how little his company really needs this deal, and how, if he wanted, he could have the other man out of his house and begging in the streets by noon tomorrow, so long as it wasn't a public holiday. The waiter just stands there, eyes too wide and mouth twitching, until Roxas goes to leave, whereupon he finds those grubby nails settling against the sleeve of his dress shirt.  
“I think you'll find you need to pay for the wine, sir.” he says, and there's not even a hint of an apology there, so Roxas is already searching for a name tag on the chest which looks like a bag of wet coat-hangers, to find a name so he can complain to the manager, “Once it's open, it's policy to charge the customer for the whole bottle.”  
Oh, so the little server wants to play that game, does he? Roxas has to bite back a smile, because really, policy? He writes policy law for a fucking living, and that living is a damn sight more than a server at even this, admittedly high-end, restaurant.  
“And is it policy to empty the glass all over the customer, too?” he says, brightly.  
“I wanted to be sure your pants liked the taste.” the kid shoots back, and Roxas has almost got to admire the sheer gall of that, as he glares into eyes greener than a side-salad, framed by hair more red than a fire truck.  
“So much so that they are now... soused.” Roxas lets the word trip off his tongue, knowing he's won, like he always knows, “I'm afraid I need to drive them home.”  
He walks off, at that, and doesn't listen to the frantic shouts of 'sir, sir, SIR?' from behind him. He doesn't even bother picking up his jacket as he leaves, the material wrinkled from the seats and worthless without a matching set of slacks to wear with them.  
Sometimes, he thinks he's never forgiven that first meeting.

Roxas Hart is one of the better level of blood-sucking leeches that most people call lawyers, although that isn't generally what they would like to call them. He accepts that – two older brothers and one younger, he's used to insults and taunts, tricks and teasing from people who would always be bigger and stronger than him, or more able to use their big blue eyes to get off easily. There is almost nothing the office could throw at him that Cloud, Demyx and Sora didn't do first, and better, and more painfully – unless it involved a bucket of frogs and his favourite comforter. So there's no fear when a letter comes from the restaurant, asking him politely to pay for the wine – and still no apology. He sends them the dry-cleaning bill for the pants, and purposefully shorts the postage, so the bastards will have to pay to pick it up before they can read the insult he's sent them. He doesn't even bother writing a letter. They know him, he brings in business to the tune of several thousand dollars in lunch meetings, they're hardly about to get him arrested over one bottle of wine he didn't even get to taste, and which was almost five hundred dollars cheaper than his usual there. No sense in treating prospective partners to anything, after all – save that for when they're agreed and are paying him ludicrous money to protect them from their own fuck ups. Sometimes, most of the time, on evenings like this, tie loose and top button undone, reclining with a glass of something vintage and rich, staring at his own reflection in the huge window of his apartment lounge, Roxas Hart loves his life.

He goes back there, of course he does, for what can only really be classed as elevenses, no matter how fucking English that is, and how much it makes him think of that fucking movie with the hobbits and elves and shit. The place is dead, lunchtime rush not yet arriving, and there's one solitary, sullen server near the bar, cleaning glasses and looking absolutely nowhere near him, which Roxas takes offence at until he realises the kid's new, his hands are shaking, and they've got him with the cheap glasses, just in case. He looks about for anyone else, and hears something from a corner, turns his head to look.  
“Beautiful but boring, he visited me yesterday.” the words are familiar, the song, the tune, but the voice is wrong, until his eyes follow the sound and spot the redhead, that fucking redhead from the time with the wine, curled in a chair with an acoustic guitar, of all things, strumming softly, and looking right at him, “He noticed my fingers, and he asked me if I would play.”  
“Service?” Roxas asks, meeting those eyes head on – he wants a fucking risotto, and yes, it's only 10.30am, but he's been up since three working on policy for the fucking White House, so he's snappish and hungry.  
“And I really didn't care a lot, but couldn't think of a reason why not.” he finishes off, before putting the guitar down and standing with a grace he didn't have when he was fucking pouring a few hundred dollars of wine onto Roxas' lap. “So if you don't come any closer, I don't mind if you stay.”  
“Funny.” Roxas says, when the kid is inches from him, “Because the only accident involving my thighs was the one last time I was here.” That's when he looks up and realises the kid's got a fucking head and a half on him, long and lean and exactly what Roxas looks for in a hook up, exactly the sort of anonymous body he likes to stick his dick in and walk away after.  
“And may I say, on behalf of management, that we are most terribly sorry for that.”  
That throws Roxas for a few seconds, but he rallies by spotting a name tag this time.  
“Well, Axel, I suggest you find someone to make me a seafood risotto, hold the shrimp, and a coffee, as strong as you can manage.”  
“No wine?”  
Roxas actually barks out a laugh at that – he's tired, and it makes Axel start backwards in shock for a second – and shakes his head.  
“No wine. These pants are teetotal.”

After that, the frostiness is gone between them. Axel's a shit waiter, constantly dropping things, spilling glasses, splattering patrons with sauce as he puts the plate down too hard, but Roxas finds it almost charming, the ineptitude which is utterly gone when he takes up the guitar when business is slow, or when it's bustling and some entertainment is needed, and he becomes a sinuous, graceful being for the two minutes the song lasts, and then he's back to tripping over steps and dropping hot coffee on pensioners. And yet, he's always gentle when it comes to Roxas, never spills, hands always steady, never a little out of place – but they don't speak, and Roxas almost wishes he could ruin another pair of slacks, just to have that gaze turned on him again. He watches almost more than he eats – it isn't like he can't afford to waste the money, after all – and the best moments are when Axel's playing, low and soft, singing along with something which isn't even close to abandon, and he lets his eyes slide over the crowd, and never once looks at Roxas, not even a little. Which leaves Roxas free to watch the way his shirt's come untucked and there's a line of skin before dark boxers peek out of slim-fitting pants, the way his hair moves when he stretches his neck to hit a note, the way his eyes slip closed when he sings 'fuck' like it's the most erotic thing he's ever said. With Axel not meeting his eyes, Roxas gets to see everything else, and wonder what, in those eyes, he might be missing.

Roxas gives up one Sunday, when he has not excuse to be in the restaurant, and deliberately lets his foot sit a little too far out from under the table,bumping Axel's foot as he comes to set the wine down, and just like that, it's all over him, just like before, only this time, Axel's panicking, visibly, napkin in his hand and dabbing at the dark stains which will never wash out, and before he can rally himself, Roxas drags him to the washroom, making all the right noises for a hysterical customer demanding an employee make right an impossible situation. Axel looks like he wants to cry, a little bit, until Roxas pushes him back against the door and shoves a hand into that accident-scene hair, kissing the redhead like he's a dying man in the desert, and Axel is a cool drink of water. Thank fuck, Axel kisses back, because Roxas isn't sure what he would have done if he'd just molested an employee against his will, but he kisses back, nipping at Roxas' lips and making little snarling noises, like he's hungry, like he can't get enough as the two of them press together.  
“My place, nine, tonight.” Roxas says, when they pull apart, and hands him a card, “Now I'd better try and go out there and look suitably pissed at the loss of another pair of pants.”  
“You lose me my job and I won't be seeing you anywhere.” Axel says, darkly, but it isn't a no, and it doesn't sound like it's likely to become one in the intervening hours, either.  
“Don't worry,” Roxas purrs back, “I'll be good. I want to see all of you.”

The sex is hot and dirty, the first round, Roxas desperate to get his hands on something he's only seen in snippets, like the difference between a movie trailer and the fucking film, but even that's not fucking accurate, because they show you the best bits in the previews, and he hasn't seen close to the best bits of Axel yet. He wants Axel everywhere, his hands, his mouth, against him, inside him, around him, and can't decide how to take everything all at once, overwhelmed by the agony of choice, so they simply rut against each other, Roxas taking the time to suck a dark bruise into the pale skin of Axel's slim throat before he comes. The second round is slow and heated, and Roxas feels like his skin is too small as he slides inside Axel, the redhead damp with sweat and desire beneath him, open and slick from half an hour of pre-meditated preparation and five minutes of desperate rimming that Roxas hadn't even known he was going to do until he was already doing it. Axel makes the sweetest noises, rich little moans, soft gasps, desperate curses telling him to get the fuck on with it, right fucking now, for fuck's sake. Round three is sweet, gentle, lazy, neither of them really having the strength to go again, but making the most out of it, because they're together now, finally, hands held, fingers twining together, Roxas murmuring promises he actually intends to keep in between nipping Axel's earlobe. It feels right, like the moment just before that glass of wine fell, frozen forever, suspended in just that moment, just this night, just these two.

After, they lie together in the dark, and Roxas feels his heartbeat slow until it's steady again, like the sheen of sweat that dries on him, the evidence of their passions sliding away from him, little by little.  
“I was a terrible waitress, so I started to write songs.” Roxas sings, quietly, almost under his breath, almost hoping his lover won't hear, but Axel lifts his head from the pillow, rolling over to face him.  
“I never even told you I had a crush on you or anything.” Axel sings back, softly, and Roxas can't even be bothered to chastise him for matching two different verses together, just leans in and kisses him, soft, sweet, simple, and lets his eyes close, just for now.

**Author's Note:**

> There's an awful lot of Ani DiFranco in this. The boys sing snippets of 'Out of Habit' and 'Hell Yeah', which were on repeat when I wrote this, and the title is, itself, bastardised from a line of 'Hell Yeah'.


End file.
